Tomorrow, I'm going to an exhibition in Long Eaton, near Nottingham. I'm really looking forward to it. Crudely, oh so crudely, I've been telling a few people about it. I have an interest in one of the 12 exhibiting artists - we might be looking at the next mediocre thing. [UPDATE: A really good experience. What to say, where to begin. So good, so very good. I feel all warm inside.]
Also, I hurt my leg playing football today. It's just a muscular thing, but it bloody well hurts when I (try to) walk. I'm prevaricating about going to one of those out-of-hours 'walk-in' health centres. Perhaps they should be called 'ill and injured centres'. See, I could do with some crutches - just for a few days, but it's not as if I'm bleeding to death or anything. So maybe I'll just wait. Until later. When the drunks are fouling up everywhere. [UPDATE: Eureka! A couple of hiking poles just happened to be lying around the house!]
I was in Southwold, Suffolk, earlier this week. The southern end was, well, posher than the north. There were people with double-barrel surnames all over the place. And there were loads of famousish people at the Walberswick Village Fête. It was good to be in East Anglia for a short spell. For a moment, it felt like I was exorcising the ghost of something, someone, that didn't quite work. (((Shudder))).
If that Australian party girl - Sarah - gets kicked out of Big Brother later this evening, I'll win some money. [UPDATE: She wasn't, I didn't.]
I'm rather crushed that Nicole Cutler won't be returning to Strictly Come Dancing. She was the one that I was going to marry.
Ho hum, ho hum.
My leg hurts. [UPDATE: The pain is easing, though it gets stiff awfully easily.]